I am fed up by the ever more vivid gap between experience and the regurgitative descriptors of experience. This has caused me great distress. I no longer have faith that I can relate something to you with enough accuracy to the actuality of the event or feeling for it to be meaningful in the intended way. The thing related will still hold something gleaming, but that will not be the same substance that I ingested and was so excited to give back to others. This is a struggle with the authenticity of story, the authenticity of connection. I am bereft of the substance in which I swim.